Sweet Treats and Dirty Deeds
by ringaroundtherollins
Summary: Someone has baked Dean Ambrose a cake for his birthday and left it mysteriously in his locker. Dean is curious about the baker's identity, and the answer surprises him. Mindless fluff, a touch of angst. One-shot. Featuring Ambrose, Reigns, and Rollins.


**In honor of Dean Ambrose's birthday on the seventh, I cranked out this fluffy one-shot. Can't say the pairing without giving away the twist ending, though I'm sure it's not even that big of a twist. :P Enjoy!**

* * *

Working on your birthday was never fun. But when your schedule arranged for you to work three-hundred days a year, it wasn't exactly easy to take time off.

Dean Ambrose didn't mind. He loved his job.

He was back in the Pepsi Center in Denver, Colorado for tonight's episode of Raw. The card featured his buddy Roman Reigns taking on Luke Harper in a non title match, and Dean was willing to bet his entire paycheck Bray Wyatt would interfere in some way. He wished the best for Roman in the match. Neville was going up against King Barrett. Lucha Dragons had a match against the Prime Time Players. Brie Bella against Naomi.

As for him?

A match for the World Heavyweight Championship against Seth Rollins. A rematch after Dean lost to him last week.

Just another day.

Just another birthday.

Dean found his designated locker room and pushed inside. Standard area. Tile floor, blue walls, two lockers even if he only required one. Showers. Sinks.

Just another day.

Except…

What was that smell?

Nothing one was used to smelling in a locker room, whether it had been used already or not.

Dean caught a whiff of the scent immediately. It was sweet, warm. Smelled almost like…he could have been mistaken…cake?

The aroma wafted from one of the lockers. Dean tugged it open.

Inside on the shelf on a glass plate was a round white cake, sheathed in plastic wrap, its glossy iced top smothered in raspberries. He smiled. For him? For his birthday?

There was no card or present. Only the cake.

Dean took hold of the plate and freed the pastry from the locker. He pressed a finger gently into the plastic. It was obviously recently-baked, fresh with warmth and its tantalizing savor conveying to his nostrils. Whoever had mysteriously delivered this cake to him must have done in seconds after it came out of the oven.

But who?

Most of the superstars were just beginning to arrive. Who'd been here long enough to bake a cake—then deliver it to his locker before Ambrose had the chance to arrive and discover it for himself?

Dean brought the cake with him out of the locker room. He had an idea.

Roman's locker room was stationed nearby. He knocked on the door and pushed inside before he got an answer.

Roman was in front of his locker, unpacking a towel and a change of workout clothes from his duffle bag. He glanced at Dean and said, "Hey."

"Hey. Thanks for this, Roman, this was really sweet. Wanna share it?"

"Huh?"

Dean upheld the cake.

"Ooh, birthday cake!"

"Yeah, it is. So thank you."

Roman blinked. "Oh, uh…you think it's from me?"

"Yeah? Who else would it be from?"

Roman pulled air through his teeth in a wince. "I feel like a lousy brother right now. That's not from me."

Dean cocked his head. "It—it's not."

"No…I thought we were gonna celebrate tonight after Raw?"

"Oh, yeah, I know, that's still on. But…this really didn't come from you?"

"No? Sorry, Dean."

Dean pushed air out of his lungs. Roman was the one person he was _certain_ would bake him a cake on his birthday. If not him, then…

"Still wanna share it?" Dean asked.

Roman made a face, to Dean's surprise. "You don't know who left it for you?"

"No."

"I'd find that out first before diving into it." He lifted a finger at the delectable dessert. "You never know if it was set with bad intentions."

"Psh. Who would wanna—" Dean nearly scoffed until a thought interrupted him. He met Roman's eye contact, reading the Samoan's mind. "No. You don't really think they'd—"

Roman shrugged a shoulder with his hands up. "Wouldn't surprise me. They play dirty."

Dean frowned. "So much for a secret admirer."

* * *

Dean stalked towards Triple H's office, cake still in hand, sliding in its plastic layer back and forth over the plate with each aggressive step. If the Authority was responsible for this cake, there was no way in hell he'd eat it. For all he knew, it was laced with laxatives or pot or something. It was dirty, but Roman was right. That was how they operated.

He barged into the office without knocking. "Hey, happy birthday to me!" he exclaimed to whoever happened to be in the office at the time—and it was the big bossman himself. Dean positioned the glass plate on the desk and said, "Made you guys a little something to celebrate. Dig in."

Hunter, sitting in his chair across the desk, stared at the cake, then stared up at Dean, looking irritated. "Really?"

"Yeah. Go for it. My treat."

"No, thanks. Not hungry."

"Oh come on, Hunter. I made it with an _extra special ingredient_." Dean slid the plate over piles of paperwork towards the Game, leaning over the table. Hunter didn't let up on his annoyed expression.

"You saying you did something to this cake?"

"I don't know, am I? Or am I saying maybe the _real_ baker of this cake did?"

"Who's the real baker of this cake?"

"You, Triple H. Game's the right nickname for you, ain't it? Making me this cake, pretending you give a damn about my birthday, when you probably poisoned it to hospitalize me before my big match tonight against your little ankle-biter Seth Rollins?"

"Dean, even if I cared enough about your birthday to remember it was today, I wouldn't have made you a cake. I'm not _pretending_ to give a damn, because I truly don't."

The retort pricked at his heart, even if he could expect nothing less from Triple H. Dean straightened his posture. "So you didn't make me this cake?"

"Nope."

"And there's no chance Stephanie or Kane or—"

"I promise you, nobody in the Authority cares enough to bother making you a cake on your birthday, Ambrose. Are we done here?"

Dean blinked. Was that a tear trying to form, sting his eye? "Yeah. Sure."

He regathered his dessert, which had cooled off by now, and elbowed through the door out of Triple H's office.

This confused him. Perhaps it shouldn't have been as big of a deal as he was making it out to be. But the question wrestled with his mind. Who else on the roster would be nice enough to bake him a cake? He was surrounded by decent guys, sure. Cena maybe, Neville, Cesaro, one of Roman's cousins. He couldn't imagine someone like Ryback or Kalisto slaving over a hot oven for his sake. The heels would have followed the Authority's path and disregarded his birthday completely, if they even knew about it.

"Hey, Ambrose."

Dean paused before a corner. Randy Orton was moving towards him, dressed already for tonight in his black tights and matching boots.

"Hey, Randy."

"Happy birthday, Lunatic."

A smile flared up on his face. "You remembered?"

"'Course I did." Randy punched his shoulder without perceiving the glassware in Dean's hands.

"Did you make me this?" Dean dipped his chin towards the cake.

Randy looked at the dessert and snickered. "Nah. I can't bake to save my life. Looks good, though. What flavor is it?"

"Not sure."

"Well, dive into it, man. You deserve it." He tapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "And lemme know if you need help finishing it. Look delicious."

"I will." The balloon that had swelled inside Dean at the prospect of Randy being the suspected baker deflated. But it was kind of him to remember the occasion, anyway. "Thanks."

Instead of going back to his locker room, Dean brought the cake into the kitchen area on the second floor. Here was where meals, snacks and other forms of nourishment were prepared for events like this. Dean had an itching feeling that here is where the cake was crafted. The place was clean, for the most part, except for a perfectly cake-shaped pan, a frosting-stained mixing bowl, and various utensils stacked in the sink. The oven wasn't on, but trace evidence of a cake was found via sizable crumbs lining the counter. Whoever the baker was hadn't bothered to clean up, most likely intending to get the cake to Dean's locker room as quickly as he—or she—could.

She.

Maybe it was a Diva?

Dean sat down at the table and helped himself to some stray plasticware. He carefully removed the plastic wrap and set it aside, flat, on the table next to the plate. He carved two lines into the small cake, sculpting a triangular slice for consumption. He wouldn't eat all of it now—not smart to do before a match. Plus, he wanted to share it with Roman. And maybe some with Orton.

Dean bit into the sliver.

He was surprised at what he tasted.

White chocolate raspberry. His absolute favorite.

Who the hell knew him so well that they'd bake him his favorite cake for his birthday, yet somehow still remain completely anonymous?

Or was it a coincidence?

Dean picked a couple of raspberries off the slice and popped them into his mouth. Fresh. Juicy. Delicious.

The baker had truly gone all the way. They hadn't bought him a cake, they'd baked it for him. Not just any cake, but his favorite.

Ninety-five percent of the roster was ruled out now as the culprit. He highly doubted folks like John Cena and Ryback knew him well enough to be familiar with his favorite flavor of cake. That was completely random knowledge, and specific.

It had to be someone who knew him very, _very_ well.

Dean finished off the piece and wrapped the cake back up in its sheath before he ate the rest. His belly rumbled for more, but it was time to get ready for tonight.

Backstage was abuzz with superstars, baby faces and heels alike. Someone patted him on the back and wished him luck against Rollins. Someone else wished him a happy birthday, but before he could turn around and confront whoever it was about the cake, they were gone.

 _Guess I'll never find out_.

He was thankful for the treat, nonetheless. He hid the rest away just where he'd found it, mysteriously left behind in his locker by an anonymous sponsor.

Raw kicked off with the Authority boasting of their most prized possession, Seth Rollins. Not the Seth Rollins Dean had once been with, the high-flying, hard-working mastermind Dean once called brother, but a cowering, sniveling, loudmouthed little weasel who bent over backwards for his new family. He smiled smugly at the crowd that hissed and heckled him. Dean watched from backstage, rolling his eyes so much at everything the Authority had to say that he was giving himself a headache.

"When you're in a company like this, there's a lot expected of you," Seth said. "You're expected to train. You're expected to fight. You're expected to work hard, and of course, you're expected to win. The Authority came to me with hopes. They came to me with potential in their eyes, looking at me, knowing that I could be a champion someday. And I think I speak on their behalf when I say, I went _above_ and _beyond_ their expectations."

 _Funny, 'cause you went below and deep beneath mine_ , Dean said.

"And I've hit the highest point of my career, gaining this thing." Seth lifted the belt high above his head with a bandaged hand. "And I'm not going to let someone like Dean Ambrose just take it away from me. Not after working this hard. Not after coming this far."

Dean snorted. _Just watch yourself, Seth. Just watch_.

"Dean." It was Renee Young, approaching him from behind. A camera lit their faces, and she held a microphone to her red lips. "Seth Rollins has been talking so much over the past week, ever since your last championship match, about how you don't stand a chance against him tonight, calling this rematch 'pointless.' Your thoughts?" She pushed the microphone to his face.

Dean simpered at her. "Renee, Seth has been talking so much about a _lot_ of things lately. Not just over the past week, but over the past _year_. He's still got a lot to learn about this company. Less talk, more action. If you wanna talk, then talk till your lips are blue. But if you're gonna step up, you better stay standing. And that's exactly what I've been doing. He knocks me down, I get back up. Actions speak louder than words, Rollins, even louder than your screechy voice. So shut your mouth and come at me, brother." He slapped his hands against his chest.

"Thank you, Dean."

"Thank _you_ , Renee. Oh, and thank you for that cake you made me."

Renee blinked at him, shifting a baffled look towards the camera, then back at Dean. "I, uh…I don't know—"

"You didn't bake me a cake?"

"No?"

"Figures. Oh well. Had to try."

He made off on his own.

* * *

Neville finished off King Barrett with a Red Arrow. Brie Bella beat Naomi with a missile dropkick. Roman Reigns won by disqualification against Luke Harper after Bray Wyatt _of course_ interfered. Lucha got the entire arena to chant their names after defeating the Prime Time Players.

Now it was time for the main event.

Dean Ambrose made his entrance after Rollins's. The crowd howled over him, screaming, waving their hands, singing his name over "Retaliation" which blared over him. He ambled into the ring, feeling confident and cool. The cake wasn't on his mind anymore. He had to focus on this match for a little while.

It was everything.

 _Getting that belt would be a nice birthday present_.

Lillian Garcia announced their names and that the match, scheduled for one-fall, was indeed for the World Heavyweight Championship.

Seth glared at him from his corner. He unwillingly surrendered the title belt to the official so he could present it to the Universe.

"Hey, you should just hand that over to me," Dean called, cracking his knuckles followed by his neck. "It's my birthday."

"Shut up," Seth said.

Dean just grinned. _Still bitter, brother_? It was easier to hate Seth as opposed to missing him when they were in the ring together and he was the only opponent between Dean and his first world heavyweight title.

Seth was wearing one glove, his other hand taped up in a white bandage. What was the deal with that? Injury? Something Dean could use to his advantage? It felt like a dirty gambit, but it wasn't like Rollins hadn't ever used one of Dean's injuries to his advantage before.

The bell rang thrice.

Seth and Dean were at each other's throats before the third toll.

If anyone could challenge Dean in many ways, physically and mentally, altogether at once, it was Seth Rollins. Seth knew him better than anyone, maybe even better than Roman. Every move Dean had to offer was countered like Seth had foreseen the attack long before Dean thought to try it. But Dean knew Seth, too. Each counter was responded to by a separate attack. Punches to the face, to the gut. Rolling around, each scrambling for a pin. Bouncing off the ropes and knocking each other off their feet, bodies striking the hard mat with a _clap_.

Dean loved, and hated, fighting Rollins.

He was Dean's greatest adversary. Friend turned foe. A weakness that could serve as a great strength from time to time.

Seth bent Dean over, going for the Pedigree to everyone's horror, but Dean twirled out of the hold before it fortified and kicked Seth in the stomach. The reversal was supposed to morph into Dirty Deeds, but Seth spun out of that as well. _He's too good_ , Dean thought, weary already.

Dean launched himself off the ropes and struck Seth, sending him toppling to the mat. Dean crawled atop him. Instead of going for a pin, he went for the arm attached to the potentially injured hand. The bandages had slackened during the match, sagging from his paw. Dean bolted Seth to the mat with his knees in the small of Seth's back and twisted his arm around, eliciting shouts of pain. The official hit the mat, putting his face near Seth's, asking if Seth wanted to tap. Seth used his free arm to wave ahead, reaching for the ropes that seemed so far away.

Dean had him.

" _Just give it up_!" Dean yelled in his face. "Reign's over, Seth…"

"Screw you!" Seth roared back. His face was contorted with pain. Dean refastened his grip on Seth's arm and bent his wrist back a bit. Seth screamed, beads of sweat trickling down his vexed face.

This position made the bandages droop even further.

Dean got a good look at Seth's injury.

The heel of his hand was swollen purple, reddening towards the center of the rounded wound. Almost looked like a burn mark.

Dean gasped. Burn mark?

Like…what one would give themselves if they were in a hurry…to bake a cake…little time, hot pan, stress kicking in to get the job done before…

No…surely not…

But who knew Dean Ambrose better than anyone? Better than his brother, his best friend, Roman Reigns?

Who knew that his favorite flavor of cake was white chocolate raspberry?

Who'd been around him for years, whether they got along or not, so much so that to forget about the past was damn near impossible no matter how good or bad the times between them were?

Seth freaking Rollins.

He had to know for sure. Had to.

He flipped Seth onto his back with a lift of his two-hundred and five-pound frame and a slam against the mat.

"How'd you burn your hand?" he demanded.

Seth was bewildered. "Wha—"

" _How'd you burn your hand_?"

Knowing some as well as Dean knew Seth gave him some cheats to life. Like knowing when Seth was feeling anything without speaking of it. Seth blinked, and the perplexity was gone. Left in its place, in his hazel eyes, was sadness.

And revelation.

"You?" Dean asked, absorbing Seth's former confusion as his own.

The distraction gave Seth the time he needed to escape. He clipped Dean in the jaw with a cheap shot, lifted a staggered Dean to his feet, and executed a successful Pedigree. He raised Dean's leg for the pin. _One, two, three_.

The match was over.

Seth Rollins had retained his championship. Nobody was happy about it.

Dean rolled onto his side, fists balled against his face. He was furious at himself for letting the distraction take priority over his contest. Pained after that last grizzly attack. Disappointed that he'd once again managed to fail his shot at a title belt, the best in the business.

But most of all, he was baffled by the identity of his mysterious baker.

A hand tugged his shirt, rolling him onto his back. Seth Rollins hunched over him, prized title over his shoulder. He put his face into Dean's. Here's where he would make some pathetic remark, an immature taunt about how great he was and Dean was nothing but crap.

But while his face read boast, his eyes read sorry.

"Happy birthday, Ambrose," he whispered.

Leaving it at that, he hopped out of the ring and swaggered down the walkway behind a wave of boos and groans.

Dean sat himself up on the mat and watched him go. He took in each breath deeply. His eyes were so far out of their sockets in pure shock that blinking proved difficult.

Things were different now, of course. Seth was consumed by greed and disallowed to pursue anything but a rivalry with either Dean or Roman. He was the Authority's bitch now. World heavyweight champion. Like he couldn't have gotten that far with the Shield "holding him back."

But he was still Seth.

Still cared some. Obviously. He couldn't, but he did.

He would continue to do what was best for business. For his own sake. He cared about himself overall.

But even gods had soft spots.

 _Talk about going beyond expectations_.


End file.
